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These days, Kirk's quarters are where McCoy ends up after shift. The bustle of the rec deck is for the young and excitable, and the ship's library is a lure from which McCoy does his damned hardest to escape. He reckons it's best not to think about that one, unless some poor sod comes searching for him at the dawn of alpha again and finds him slumped over a pile of data files, fast asleep. No, Kirk's cabin is free from prying librarians and nosy staff, and depending on who is in it, there is peace and quiet in variable amounts, and no shortage of company.
Tonight, Kirk’s cabin is deceptively empty. McCoy toes off his shoes and peers first to the kitchenette, where the synthesiser lights are twinkling, and then across the lounge. He swears he hears voices, faintly. The door to Kirk's bedroom is ajar.
Ah, so that’s where they’ve got to. Figures.
The library might not be such a bad idea after all. There certainly won’t be anybody necking in the memoir section if they know what is good for them. Sometimes it feels like half this ship doesn’t know what’s good for them.
McCoy considers a bottle of scotch and his evening plans: a good book and a snooze, or something to busy his hands. Crochet was on the table; Ensign Henry's baby is due in a matter of weeks. Sickbay is well equipped for anything she and her little one will need, of course, babies and brand-new mothers are fussy like that (rightly deserved), but what’s the harm in a personal touch? Socks, blankets, a whole hoard of pea-sized bobble hats. McCoy might've gone overboard with the yarn, but hell, it ain’t every day a soul is born on this ship.
Not for the lack of trying, mind. Sweet Jesus, some people on this ship really try. There’s two people trying in Kirk’s bedroom right now, not that anything will come of that.
Goddammit. McCoy lours at the open door. He could go and shut it, nice and easy, and put his feet up on the couch. Pour a scotch. Wake the TV. Let Kirk and Spock enjoy themselves in whatever manner they see fit.
Or he could go and knock it open and enjoy his evening another way. It is a real possibility. Emphasis on possibility. But anything is possible with those two.
McCoy sighs. He usually errs on the side of caution with things like this – he is a cautious man. Especially in the bedroom. High stake risks are for Sickbay, where he controls the lighting, actors, and scene.
Ah, well, playwriting is more Kirk’s thing. He is a dramatic little shit like that. Perfect for the leading role. Starfleet’s Golden Man. He has been good to McCoy all these years, mind, letting him play any part he so chooses: friend, lover, best frenemies with Spock.
McCoy’s surly mouth strikes a friendlier pose. It sure is a shame no-one is here to see it. He reckons he should rectify that. What the hell.
He crosses over to the bedroom and pushes open the door. The sound of their lovemaking isn’t half as quiet no more; he sees Kirk first, always, larger than life and large. He has lost that lean shape to muscle and fat; it looks good on him, but damn near everything does. And he looks good on top of Spock, sweat slick, huffing; McCoy can hardly see Spock, in fact, except for a pale pair of legs spread out on the bed.
The lights are low. Neither of them notices him. Kirk’s balls are swinging, hips slamming, the sheets twisted up under his feet. His eyes are hard in a focused sort of way – always giving, always succeeding, a reputable master in bed. Spock damn well seems to think so, anywho, hanging onto the headboard for dear life.
Confused desire flip-flops about in McCoy’s belly. He does often wonder if the unpredictable highs and lows of his libido ever annoys them, although they have never said if they ever miss him during sex, or worse, if they don’t.
The door was open. And they’ve mounted this rodeo enough times to know where all the players go, whether there’s two on the bull or three.
Kirk looks back over his shoulder, like there isn’t someone else he should be batting those eyelashes at. His concentration immediately snaps to McCoy like a dog with a biscuit in front of its nose.
“Bones!” he cries, delighted. McCoy can appreciate that much. He sits back on his heels, cock slipping free to bounce up under his stomach. He wipes his forehead with his arm, sex-glowed, in an attempt to look more presentable.
Spock groans beneath him, drawn out and relieved. That’s not like him – struggling to keep up with Kirk. They must be on their second go-round.
McCoy knows full well Kirk has it in him to go for a third.
“Hope I ain’t interrupting?”
“You, Bones? Never.” Kirk flashes a grin. He rubs a palm over Spock’s ass and inspects his handiwork. “Although I think Spock was right on the edge of it there.”
Spock’s fucked-out face appears from the depths of the pillow. Now, ain’t that a good look for a Vulcan?
“Leonard,” Spock croaks – clears his throat, tries again. “Ashalik, are you well?”
“Oh, dandy,” McCoy says. He drums his fingers against his elbow, betraying his nerves. The sight of them is – is – “You sure this ain’t a bad time?”
“Of course not,” Kirk says, and even naked, red-faced, and at his most vulnerable, the way he sits up straighter for business is a sight to behold. “Did something happen? The Bridge –?”
“No, no, nothing like that,” McCoy assures. He waves towards the bed; the years of easy acceptance from Kirk and Spock have yet to make up for the rebuttals from his wife, but he should damn well try. “Is there room for one more?”
“Yes!”
“Of course, Leonard.”
Kirk drops his legs over the side of the bed. His thighs are bitten red. His cock wobbles towards McCoy. God, isn’t it a messy thing? Sometimes that’s even a good thing.
“The floor’s yours, Bones.”
This might well be one of those times. McCoy shuffles over. Kirk’s shoulders are a safe place to touch compared to nearabout every other inch of him, and McCoy brushes one with his hand. The bed creaks as Spock rolls onto his side, stretching closer, the desert heat of his bond-link feeling closer, too. McCoy brushes that one with his mind.
“Been a few weeks,” McCoy says, just in case they don’t take note of how little or often he joins them in bed. He tries to notice and not notice how naked they are: utterly, invitingly, wanting him, his. “Y’all going to get me out of these clothes?”
Kirk makes quick work of it. He is not the type of man to wait around once his mind is made up. McCoy’s shirt and undershirt are first, blue then black then a tug at his belt. A button pops open. The soft furl of a zipper. McCoy’s cock is limp as Kirk's hands slide away his pants but neither Kirk nor Spock seem to mind.
McCoy tries to make it sound appealing in his head – the chase Kirk likes, the show: disrobing, as Spock might say – but undressing is just undressing, and that’s the long and short of it. He whips off his socks and kicks his pants away from the bed. His shirt looks like Spock’s in the pile. Kirk’s green tunic is dangling from the mirror. Telling fingerprints smear the glass.
“Are we losing you already?” Kirk asks, pawing at the loose cuffs of McCoy’s boxers. A twinkle shines in his eyes as he rubs his thumbs along the sparse hair covering McCoy’s thighs. “I’ll have you up against the mirror if you want that, Bones. I’ll even be a gentleman about it.”
His stomach flips. That sounds better than anything McCoy was thinking up in his head. Maybe it is just the easy way Kirk says it: like it is easy, like wanting and having are simply matters of truth. Like he doesn’t have to battle with himself to show his partners some love.
“Leonard.”
Leonard. He hears it in his ears and in his head – Spock’s judicious disesteem. That Vulcan voodoo of his reaches right into McCoy’s auditory cortex and rattles it around: hey, hey, listen to me!
Like an errant child, McCoy thinks, broadcasting it back. He doesn’t have Kirk’s natural aptitude to any task or Spock’s natural everything, so it wobbles along their bond-link in a similar manner to Kirk’s cock rocking between his legs. He knows both Kirk and Spock pick up on that wayward metaphor because they smile and pull him onto the bed.
“Go on, Bones, tell me more about my cock.”
No chance, McCoy thinks, imagining a rooster shaking his tail-feathers and hurling that towards Kirk. This is not, he reckons, the intended use of the Vulcan telepathic bond, but Spock just watches it happen with half-lidded eyes and promptly drapes himself over McCoy.
He is long and heavy, and completely bare. His lok is very much part of the party already, engorged from its fo-lok and staking its claim, smearing slick all over McCoy’s boxers.
Right, that’s right, they were right in the middle of it. Jesus, no wonder Spock is raring to go.
They kiss the Human way, lips biting, Spock’s hands almost encircling McCoy’s neck. McCoy moans quietly – and then loudly as Kirk’s fingers question his waistband. He’s here now, isn’t he? There’s no shame in saying yes.
He hooks a thumb under his boxers, inviting Kirk to tug them down. Kirk makes quick work of that, too, although he has to shove Spock’s leg to do it, laughing. He dots it with a kiss afterwards – and then another, and another, climbing up to Spock’s hip and then savouring the choice of his kotik or ass.
Spock’s lok is currently spoken for, rutting into the warm crease of McCoy’s groin. It is – huge, honestly: bigger than any right it has to be. McCoy reaches down to stroke it and is rewarded by a rumble of approval against his neck.
“A gentleman wouldn’t’ve left you hangin’,” McCoy says, as he palms Spock’s lok between their stomachs.
He knows Kirk hears him and rises to the challenge, for Spock’s legs swiftly open, held tight in Kirk’s hand. A Vulcan’s lok is too civilised to sputter pre-cum the way Kirk’s cock does, but superior biology doesn’t stop Spock from groaning as Kirk sinks back inside.
Pleasure and relief spread across Kirk’s face like a blush. He grins down at the two of them: Spock, eyes closed and nearabout chewing on McCoy’s throat; and McCoy, half-buried at the bottom of the pile, still twisting his hands around Spock’s lok.
“The loves of my life...” Kirk says. He fucks lazily into Spock, chest and shoulders glimmering with sweat. And still, he makes an effort to brush his fingers over McCoy. “God, Bones, I’ll have you after.”
“You will not,” Spock says, turning that hickeying mouth away from McCoy’s neck. “There is an eighty-seven point – ha – two percent you will achieve orgasm before I.”
“I think I can do better than eighty-seven,” Kirk pants, but that’s that ego of his talking and they all damn well know it, for it only takes a few slow thrusts for his breath to tighten.
The effort of holding back his orgasm leaves him wild and shaking. He plants his feet and fucks with dogged determination, rocking Spock and rocking the bed.
McCoy’s simple hand job doesn’t appear to be doing much in the way of help, but Spock catches his wrist when he goes to pull away, gasping, “I am close.”
Kirk laughs. “I – told – you. Spock. Damn.”
He groans open-mouthed, clutching Spock's ankle to his shoulder, and spilling between his legs. His eyes flutter closed but their bond-link opens wide, blazing with those bodily pleasures: sex and touch and love.
Kirk is a carnal man. As soon as his dick softens and slips free, he is down between Spock’s legs, kissing hungrily at the skin, and sweat, and semen. The sound Spock makes is more Human than Vulcan, and it makes McCoy grin. But it is the mean grasp of his hand into Kirk’s hair that has McCoy’s own cock finally show up at the door.
Yes, one of them thinks – they all think.
Spock’s lok dribbles into McCoy’s hand. He lets it happen. Then he continues letting it happen until Spock is all worn out and boneless on the bed, and Kirk with his face smeared has to come up for air.
“I’d say you lost that one,” McCoy says, beckoning Kirk with that wet and shiny hand.
Kirk leans over and sucks those fingers into his mouth. His tongue licks over McCoy’s knuckles. His teeth graze over skin. He doesn’t look like he has lost, no, he looks like he’s damn well won a prize.
“There are times when a man must accept defeat,” Kirk replies, once he is done cleaning McCoy’s fingers of come. “A captain, not so much.”
He pushes Spock onto his back and then leans in for a kiss, taking victory in that. Spock’s lok nudges into the rolls of Kirk’s stomach. McCoy’s hand chases it, touching the thick skin of Spock’s protective fo-lok and then lower, where his body opens and lets McCoy in.
“Leonard...”
“He can take it,” Kirk assures, eyes cutting to McCoy. “Whatever you fancy, Bones. He’s yours.”
McCoy doesn’t know what he fancies, is the problem. The specifics of sex and desire and all that escape him, even after all these years. He wants them. Just them. He doesn’t particularly care for the rest, except for how happy they are.
Kirk’s eyes soften. He coaxes McCoy up and over Spock’s lap, pawing at his waist and nuzzling at his ear. He is awfully handsy for a man who has orgasmed twice tonight. McCoy would have to be dead to complain when Kirk’s hand strokes along his cock.
“How about this, then?” Kirk muses, a koala against his back. He thumbs at the head of McCoy’s dick as it slips free from its foreskin, wet and pink, and rising up. “Our good Mister Spock can do some of the work for once. Lean forward.”
McCoy’s spine pops as he does. He feels old, and stupid, and small for the five seconds it takes for Kirk to slip lubed fingers up into his ass, and then he groans, sore and nervous, but terribly aroused, stars flashing in front of his eyes.
Words whisper past his mind, back and forth. Spock’s fine fingers grip his thighs. There is – a lot going on in that crowded space between and around their bodies: Kirk’s hands and Kirk’s mouth, smiling; Spock’s meticulous fingernails scraping McCoy’s skin. His hips ride the sure expanse of Spock’s stomach and slide against his lok. McCoy grumbles as Kirk’s fingers scissor in his ass.
Relax, Bones. A smile against his ear; a warm flower in his mind. You’ll need to once Spock has his way.
An image floats between them, a cohesion of their desires. McCoy bites his lip to stop himself from whining like a dog. Christ alive, only these two can embarrass and arouse him in equal measure. He tries to reposition for better leverage, brace his foot up onto the bed, anything, but Kirk and Spock have their own agenda and they hold him stubbornly in place.
“In a rush, Bones?”
“Well, maybe if you let –”
One of Spock’s hands spreads around his neck, silencing him. McCoy’s jugular pounds.
“There will be no ‘letting’ tonight, Leonard,” Spock says, any and all of that insidious Vulcan longing gone from his expression. “Remain still.”
McCoy pushes into that grip, daring. He thinks of the way Spock had pulled so nicely on Kirk’s hair and wants that but wants it harder. The sex is an afterthought. It always is.
“Love it when you’re needy,” Kirk mutters, kissing the knobs of McCoy's cervical spine. He laughs to himself as he reaches between McCoy’s legs for the persistently hard head of Spock’s lok, because god forbid a Vulcan have a refractory period that makes sense, and guides it to McCoy’s ass.
“I am not –!”
“Hush, Leonard.” “Ssh, Bones, just take it.”
McCoy takes it all right. Spock’s lok is a fucking beast. Spock darn well knows it, of course, otherwise he wouldn’t be soothing McCoy’s gasps and groans through the ever-present reassurance of their minds – together, sharing, opposing tides washing back and forth over the same golden shore.
“God, god –”
He braces himself on Spock’s shoulder, sweat already prickling at his brow. How he manages this every time, he doesn’t know. The damn thing should come with a warning label.
He almost can’t believe it when he feels the coarse hair and wet lips of Spock’s kotik kissing his ass: he’s down. McCoy jolts instinctively, riding back up that impossibly long length.
“Ugh!”
Kirk’s hand cupping his cock and balls rids McCoy’s body of all its tension and he slips back into Spock’s lap. The punch of stars in his eyes is only second to the firm hold on his throat, halting another groan in its tracks, one that anyone below deck would surely hear.
That is all the encouragement Spock needs – which is good because it is all he’s going to get. McCoy isn’t so far gone as to beg for it, even if his wants and needs are legs-spread all across their bond-link like a beautiful lady and a masterful whore.
Spock plants his feet and gets to it. And by god, does he get to it. That damn Vulcan strength is a swift kick from a horse, upheaving thoughts, worry, and good sense from McCoy's mind.
He slaps about for something to hold onto and finds nothing. Kirk grabs his arm and twists it up behind his back, and McCoy curls vulnerably, face falling to Spock’s shoulder. He bites the duvet. Spock grabs the back of his hair instead, mimicking the fantasy ping-ponging between their brains.
“So good, you’re so good,” Kirk says.
McCoy tries to leverage himself again, get a leg up, so to speak, not look so horribly pathetic, but there is no stopping either of them once their minds are set. It’s what he wants, god, it's what he wants –
Spock stops and readjusts, growling so low that the sweat shivers from McCoy’s spine. He pulls McCoy’s face from the bed and kisses it, licking his panting mouth and tasting his tears. Then the fucking continues – because it is that. It is connection at a banal level, their minds and bodies one.
You have that, Bones, Kirk says in his not-voice: the shoreline McCoy washes over and Spock crashes against.
He palms McCoy’s cock again, struggling to keep up with the frantic grind of their bodies but giving it his all. He fingers around McCoy’s ballsack and down where Spock’s lok slams in and out, and it is Spock that groans loudest, stuttering, thrusting so deep that black spotlights shine in McCoy’s eyes.
"Christ Spock, ChriSHIT!"
He slips away for a second, maybe two, free-floating in an ocean of overwhelming sensation until a sharp tug at his nape pulls him back. He resurfaces to the smack of skin-on-skin and a briny taste, and five fingers squeezing his ass. Spock’s lok dumps its load but doesn’t stop thrusting, and he hears Kirk’s encouragement as the viscid sound of semen slapping in-and-out fills the room.
It takes time to catch their breaths. McCoy’s whole body is on fire – and not just where Kirk couldn’t resist giving his ass a cheeky smack. Someone rolls him onto his side – probably Spock, still doing all of the work – and McCoy lies there in that post-sex limbo, rocking like a buoy between satisfaction and shame.
He starts to shiver. Even his body is a contradictory bastard, goddamn. Tears well up in his eyes for some godforsaken reason. He scrubs them with the edge of the duvet and then realises just how unhygienic that is.
“Gentlemen, you are filthy,” Kirk agrees, laughter in his voice. He runs one hand up McCoy’s back and the other up Spock’s, preening like he rules the world. “I do believe a shower is in order. Bones, you good?”
Jesus, is he? McCoy feels removed from his body. He is floating up on the Science decks above, where all of Spock's minions have heard him howling.
“Apart from all the aches, you mean.”
“We’ve got all night to work those out,” says Kirk, rubbing the particularly sore spot that is McCoy’s entire ass. “A hot shower, a good meal, and I’ll suck your dick while you crochet another tiny onesie. How’s that sound?”
Heavenly, being honest. McCoy’s sense of adventure must be ramped up tonight. One orgasm is usually all he needs to scratch this particular urge. His attention span doesn’t have much wiggle room for more.
“An’ where’s Spock in all this?”
Splayed out on the bed next to him, Spock does nothing but raise an eyebrow. That says it all, really, but Kirk chimes in with, “Anywhere you want him, Bones.”